Guess Who's Coming to Lunch
by imdominating
Summary: This is a o/s written for ilsuocantante's birthday. It's just a bit of silliness. She left her wallet at home. Oh, the humanity!


**Disclaimer: I own nothing but a dirty mouth.**

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck!

I know where it is. Exactly where it is_._ Sitting on the kitchen counter. To the immediate left of my coffee. The same coffee I didn't have a chance to drink.

I mean really. It's the day I finally get to have lunch with my friend. Correction, it's the day I get to buy lunch for my amazing and very pregnant friend who is also very, very hungry, and I left my wallet at home. Awesome. And all because I couldn't stop reading.

I just _had_ to read a little bit more. Juuuust a bit more. And more. And fucking more! Jesus. I'm worse than an addict. My addiction is a weird mix of socially acceptable and 'for the love of God, don't tell your mother.' On the one hand, it's reading not, you know, smoking crack. But on the other hand, the one superglued to my Blackberry, I'm reading delicious, makes-my-toes-curl-up-in-delight, hot, sticky smut. And therein lies the shame. Well, that's where it would lie if anyone in my real life knew.

That's why I am so excited to meet up with my friend. This is a little thing we share. We can giggle and squee and use dirty words without any PTA moms judging so long as we keep our voices down in Panera. The civilized folk tend to frown on grown women talking about proper clitiquette and vamp sized portions over their paninis. Mind you, all of this is a silly little pipe dream unless I can get my hands on some cash in the next hour. Short of hooking on the corner, I'm at a loss.

Now, while the idea of sexy times is beyond tempting - I mean, I'm pretty sure I remember liking it, and I think I still know where things go - I've seen the men that populate my street. I truly believe I could get any homeless man I want, but that's not really helping the money situation. Or the 'not letting yucky men put things in me' deal I made with my vagina. Instead, I'm going to try the bank.

I say try because I have no wallet, and unfortunately, that is where I keep my ID. My only tiny little anorexic-sized glimmer of hope is that Angela is working today. Surely someone who has known me since high school will let me withdraw from my account without fingerprints and cavity searches first. Granted, I did set her up with her blazing loser of an ex-boyfriend who stole her rabbit when they broke up, then named it Prince Eric after his new boyfriend, but that was years ago. I'm sure she's over it by now, right?

I am so fucked.

Walking in, I breathe a tentative sigh of relief. Angela's there, and the line is short. Maybe the universe doesn't hate me for telling that cute British boy his earring made him look like a big, gay pirate after all. We're talking Mr. Clean in The Pirates of Penzance. Meh, it wasn't the worst ending to one of my dates, but it was the definitely the fastest.

_Honestly, how am I single? _

The line may be short, but it's moving about as fast as a fangirl through Hot Topic, so I take some time to check my surroundings. Some people might say I've seen too many movies, but I like to know my exits. You never know when a school bus is going to come barreling through carrying a crazy, gun-toting maniac who actually _has_ seen too many movies. Who'll have egg of their faces then, huh?

I round the corner of my little people pen to........

Holy mother of fuck. My brain has obviously exploded. I am dead. I am dead and done because in front of me is a man that can only be the product of a glorious - and very naughty - union between Johnny Depp and all the Followill brothers inside a Godiva bakery - artfully captured in sepia tones by Bruce Weber.

I'm pretty sure my lady parts just twitched. For real. Somebody definitely just poked my heynow with a giant popsicle, and I jerked like a hologram of my imaginary boyfriend just told me what to do. Again. Hoping my stare-gasm went by unnoticed, I jerk my hand back from where it's inching into my pants & wipe my instantly sweaty palms on my leg. I swear, twelve year old boys have more control over their hormones than I do.

I don't know what to do. I am literally standing slack-jawed, trying to keep my feet on the floor before I tacklefuck that delicious piece of man candy. Thankfully, Angela calls my name, saving me from possible public embarrassment and, let's face it, probable arrest.

"Hey girl. This is going to take just a minute. Why don't you step down to window number three," she suggests, tossing me a wink.

I'm confused. I look at her window and ask, "Not two?" I mean, I thought I knew how this worked. Apparently I was wrong.

Oh, Angela. I love you and hate you.

I glance at the window, and I see that three is indeed a magic number. Delicious WannaFuckski is standing behind the counter, straightening his tie, and narrowly avoiding the eye fucking of his life. Let's start at the top, since that's the closest to where my eyes are trying to roll:

Messy, wild hair that obviously wants me to try to tame it's majesty - with my thighs.

A superhero jaw with the perfect dusting of scruff to keep its hard edges from slicing through snug t-shirts as I drag them off over his head - with my teeth.

Pouty, perfect pink lips that I want to taste - myself on.

An Adam's Apple that could bob and weave enough to make Sugar Leonard cry and

?!

His strong, lean soul-stroking fingers have moved on from his tie to clean -uuuuuung - nerdalicious black thick-frame glasses. I watch his fingers draw the cloth across each lens in smooth, sure strokes. I follow their journey from his sinful hands to his beautiful face and finally settle on his eyes, and see they're looking right. at. me.

I cannot.

I mean, of course they are. I'm standing here like a reject from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest with glazed over eyes and a visible lack of brain function. Compound that with the fact I'm holding up the line, and you've got the socially awkward epic win that is me. I gather the last vestiges of my pride, and _carefully_ make my way to the window. I have made enough of an impression for one day.

"Hi, can I help you?" Illegal. This man should be illegal. His perfection is absolute. His voice is the sound I hear in my head when I step into a hot shower.

"Hi, um, I'm really sorry, but I was waiting for Angela. I'm sure you're more than capable, but she's the one I need. I mean, I, uh, I had a really crazy morning, and I'm supposed to have lunch with my friend, but because I have the attention span of a box of hair, I left my wallet at home, and we went to high school together, Angela and I, not you and I obviously, so I was hoping she could help me out, and I'm really sorry to take your time, and I know you don't know me, so I'll just step to the side and wait for her to finish up."

Oh my fucking verbal diarrhea. THIS IS WHY I CAN'T HAVE NICE PEENS!

"Actually, I do know you." _Who to the what now?_ "I mean, I know you're Angela's friend. She has a picture of you two on her desk. Now, why don't you tell me your name, and let's see what I can do for you." _Oh, so many things you could do for me, to me, with me, through me. Dear Dr. Seuss, my sincerest apologies for my brain and its twelve year old boy level of maturity._

Ok, young lady. Time to step up and own this. What's the worst that could happen at this point? You've already ogled him shamelessly and assaulted him with your word vomit. Why don't you bring it on home with a marriage proposal or better yet, just tell him you two should make babies. Guys love that.

Resigned to the inevitable, I respond, "Tonya. With an o."

"Tonyo?" he says with a smirk. Full-on, flirty smirk. Sexy boy wants to play? Oh, it is on like Donkey Kong, and I am going to wreck him.

"Well that _is_ what my friends call me when they want to stop being my friend, so....."

Yay!! The smirk's turned into a toothy grin! Flirting is suddenly my favorite, and this is the best day ever! I will never carry a wallet again. I shall be like Blanche DuBois and depend on the kindness of strangers to catch my swooning ass. Can I get a fistpump for feminism before it drops dead in its Birkenstocks?

"Well I'd hate to be lumped in with _those_ people, Tonya. May I ask your date of birth?"

"Actually, it's tomorrow." I was able to stop my tongue before it asked him to be my present. Small victories.

"Well, then, happy birfday," he chuckled. Jiminy shit. Did he just say happy _birfday_? I mean, homeboy's got it going on, but I like my th's. "I mean, birthday. Sorry about that, my tongue's still a little swollen. New ring, you know."

Aaaand I just came.

I think he said that on purpose! He is shamelessly trying to get into my pants by making me think dirty things about his tongue and its ring of pleasure. Silly boy! All this time wasted flirting is time better spent _already being in my pants._ It was almost like he could read my thoughts, or at least sense that I wasn't going to be able to form a sentence any time soon.

"You know what would make this whole situation much easier? I know you mentioned your friend, but you've had such a crazy day, why don't you just let me take you to lunch?"

And this is why my friends are truly golden, because I knew Lo would understand that I couldn't meet her for lunch.

I was having a love day.

**Thank you Annanabanana for playing beta for me, & WindyCityWonder for pre-reading & browbeating me. Kimpy0464 & TFX threw down the gauntlet and ilsuocantante gave me a reason - Your birth is definitely something to celebrate. Wisdomous held my hand & we jumped off the cliff together. Special thanks to LolaShoes for the *coughcanoncough* love days.**


End file.
